


An Untimely Frost

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Grey's Anatomy, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Denny Duquette is John Winchester, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-02
Updated: 2006-09-02
Packaged: 2019-10-28 09:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17784461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: She wonders why he kept part of himself back, and what else he hadn't shared.





	An Untimely Frost

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Amberlynne and Amy for handholding. The title is from Shakespeare.

She makes George read the letter out loud, makes him dial the number the letter provides. Her hands are freezing, numb, and she wraps her arms around herself as he talks.

"May I speak with Dean Winchester? This is George O'Malley from Seattle Grace Hospital... in um, Seattle, yeah... There was a letter...um--Problem? No, I don't think you understand, Mr. Winchester. We--Did you know a man named Denny Duquette?" George closes his eyes and she would feel bad for doing this to him, if she could feel at all. "I see. Well. We have reason to believe that's the name your father was using, and he's...His heart...Yes. Tomorrow would be fine."

He hangs up, sags against her on the bed. He's warm, so she doesn't protest, doesn't remind him he should go be with Callie or whatever. She curls up next to him and lets the sound of his breathing lull her to sleep.

*

"This is a bad idea." George has his resolve face on, and there was a time when she'd have teased him about that, but now she just sighs, exhausted.

"I have to know," she says finally, after letting the silence stretch too long. She pulls her hair up into a loose ponytail but doesn't bother with makeup. It couldn't hide the circles under her eyes, even if she cared about what she looked like. "If he lied about this, what else did he--"

"He loved you," George says.

She can't even muster up the energy to thank him for the lie.

*

She pulls her jacket tight around her body. It's even colder in the morgue than it is everywhere else, and she can't get warm.

"Izzie," George murmurs, his hand on her elbow. "You don't have to do this." She narrows her eyes and glares at him. He sighs and shakes his head, but drops it. "I'll be right back."

She nods absently, and when the doors swing shut behind him, she walks to the wall of refrigeration units, puts her hand over the drawer she knows is Denny's. It's cold, too. She wonders if he can feel it, wherever he is. Wonders if he knows he's taken part of her with him, wherever he went. Wonders why he kept part of himself back, and what else he hadn't shared.

The doors swing again, and George comes through with two guys who look way too old to be Denny's sons.

She turns slowly to face them, hand reluctantly trailing off the cool metal of the drawer. She crosses her arms to stop the shivering.

"Hey," says one of the guys, flashing a flirtatious smile that reminds her of Denny so much her heart hurts. "It's Bethany Whispers."

The other one nudges him. "Dean."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. Look, I'm sure this is all a big misunderstanding. There's nothing wrong with my father's heart." He holds out a hand to her but she doesn't take it. "Mine, on the other hand, you've just broken." He splays his fingers against his chest. Before Denny died, she'd probably have laughed at the lameness of it and told him he was cute.

"This idiot is Dean," the other one says, giving her an apologetic smile. "I'm Sam."

She licks her lips, but her throat is dry and she can't force any words out. George says, "This is Izzie Stevens. She was Denny's--She was one of Denny's--your father's doctors."

"Yeah?" Dean says, giving her an assessing look. She can't meet his gaze.

"Yeah," she manages, and it's nothing but a hoarse croak.

"Well, as much fun as this is," Dean says, "let's get it over with, so we can be on our way and you can find this guy's real family." He reaches out and yanks the drawer open, no fear or hesitation in him, like he's used to morgues and dead bodies and the possibility of having to identify family members on cold metal slabs. He's going to say something else--his mouth is open, full lower lip drawing her reluctant attention--when he catches sight of Denny.

"Oh, God," he says, his voice as broken as hers was a moment ago. "Dad. No."

He looks as hurt and bewildered as she feels, and all the color has drained from Sam's face. They look blue in the cool light of the morgue, bloodless and half-dead themselves, clinging to each other. They don't cry, though, so she won't either.

"Okay, then," George says, startling in the silence. He shoves the drawer closed and tries to herd them toward the door.

"What happened?" Sam asks, his voice thick. He's got a hand on Dean's shoulder; one of Dean's hands is fisted in Sam's shirt.

"His heart," she says dully. "He finally got the transplant--"

"Transplant?" they ask at the same time.

"He was ill for a long time." She shrugs, one hand creeping up to brush the hair that's come loose from her ponytail off her neck. It's giving her the chills. "He said he had no family, nobody to come visit him. We--we became friends." She looks at George, who shrugs.

"I'm sure there's paperwork or something," he says helplessly, and this time, they let him lead them out.

*

It's raining when she leaves the hospital. Her umbrella is in the car, but it doesn't matter, because she can't really feel the rain anyway, little painless needles that slip into her skin and only hurt on exit, in the memory of their insertion. She starts crying, the heat of her tears the only difference between them and the rain, and she speeds up, wanting the safety of her car.

"Hey! Hey!"

She feels a hand on her elbow and an umbrella slips between her and the sky, and they're walking next to her, Sam on her left, holding the umbrella, and Dean on her right, his fingers digging into her arm.

"Dr. O'Malley told us," Sam starts.

She doesn't want to know, jerks her arm out of Dean's grip, wanting to run away. He lets her go.

Sam tries again with, "You were obviously close to Dad."

"We were going to get married." At their shocked looks, she laughs a hysterical, choking laugh that feels like sobbing. "He got a new heart and we were going to get married. And I--Everything I did, every rule I broke, would have been worth it." She scrubs at her face with the backs of her hands. "Except it was all a lie."

Sam's mouth twists, and Dean looks away. She knows she shouldn't speak ill of the dead--of _Denny_ \--but then, he wasn't Denny, was he?

"Izzie." The way Dean says it, she can't not look at him. "He--He was a lot of things, Izzie, and maybe he lied to you about his name, but if he told you he loved you--if he said that--he meant it. Because he only ever said it when he meant it." He sounds raw, broken, and he holds himself like a man who's taken a beating, a man used to pain finally pushed beyond endurance.

She doesn't say anything--she doesn't think she can force any words out anyway--but she nods.

"We're taking him home," Dean says, and then he walks away.

"We'll have a service sometime this week," Sam says. "You're welcome to come." He offers her the umbrella, but she doesn't take it. He shakes his head and follows after Dean, and now she can feel the rain against her skin, cool and wet. She makes it to her car, where she sits and cries, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, until she thinks she's going to be sick.

*

The sun is bright and the sky cloudless in Lawrence. The cemetery is lush and green and full of marble-white stillness that should probably be comforting, but isn't.

She stands away from the small ring of mourners surrounding Dean and Sam, feeling like an intruder into a life Denny didn't even want her to know he'd had.

The mourners straggle back to the parking lot after the final blessing, and she waits for a few minutes, hoping Sam and Dean will leave quickly, without speaking to her. They don't, of course, so she walks over, stands with them over the spot where they just buried their father's ashes. She doesn't ask why they're sprinkling salt into the grave, murmuring over it in Latin. She just squints against the sunshine and waits.

When they're done, Dean takes her elbow, and his hand is warm and strong against her skin.

"He'd be glad you came," Sam says.

She decides to believe it.

*


End file.
